


Below the Belt

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Bondage, Frustration, Happy Ending, Light Bondage, M/M, Power Play, Teasing, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s trying to get some work done, but Sherlock’s only got one thing on his mind. John decides to tie Sherlock to a chair and teach him a lesson in patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Below the Belt

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been quite a while since I wrote any porn simply for the sake of porn. I’m remedying that now!
> 
> edit: Lascocks on tumblr did this [amazing illustration](http://lascocks.tumblr.com/post/28366943749/commission-for-moonblossom-based-on-her-fic)! It's so awesome!
> 
> and XistentialAngst made me this [gorgeous cover](http://moonblossom.tumblr.com/post/34564582671/xistentialangst-below-the-belt-by-moonblossom)!

The problem with exposing Sherlock to new things is that when he finds something he enjoys he tends to fixate, and demand them with alarming and inconvenient regularity. Which is fine, when the things are easily accessible and relatively inexpensive, like Nutella or crap telly, but a little less convenient when they’re things like sex. Which is how John finds himself cranky and irritable, and more than a little bit horny late on a Saturday evening, with Sherlock clinging to him as he tries to type up a blog entry.

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock. I just need to finish this entry and go to bed.”

Sherlock’s hands snake around John’s waist, and find their way to his groin.

“Mm, your body begs to differ.”

“Yes, well, that’s what happens when your insufferably attractive partner keeps pawing at you. It’s an instinctual reaction, not an invitation, now do you mind?” He swats Sherlock’s hand away half-heartedly, playfully; there’s no deterring him at this point. Sherlock’s lips find their way to a swath of exposed skin on John’s throat, and John finds himself tilting his head for ease of access, and moaning softly despite himself. Damn Sherlock for knowing his weak spots.

“Sherlock, sod it. If you don’t knock it off and let me work, I will tie you to one of the kitchen chairs with my belt and leave you there until _I_ am good and ready for you.” Even in the dim light, John can see the flush spread across Sherlock’s cheeks, his pale irises engulfed by dark pupil as his breath hitches. John smiles, slow and predatory.

“You like that idea, don’t you? My little pervert… Shame, I’m not interested right now and would rather just finish my work.”

“Wrong…” Sherlock’s voice is low and teasing, carrying through the quiet flat. “Your respiration is nearly twice as fast as usual; your heart rate is elevated; your throat is pink, the way it always gets when you’re aroused; and you’re sporting a rather spectacular erection. That can’t be comfortable, John. Why don’t you just take your trousers off?”

Suddenly, John’s body language changes. He squares his shoulders and shuts the laptop with a definitive click before standing - no, _looming_ over Sherlock, despite their height differences. He pulls his belt out of the loops of his jeans, quickly enough to cause a loud snap, and glares at Sherlock.

“Kitchen. Now. Sit.”

Sherlock’s breath rattles in his chest, and he debates pretending to argue for a moment but the rush of blood to his penis has him so distracted he just stands there, stammering. “John…”

“No arguments, Sherlock. I _warned_ you.” To emphasise his point, he snaps his belt again, and Sherlock scrambles backwards, throwing himself violently into one of the wooden kitchen chairs. He’s panting heavily, staring up at John, who paces slowly around the chair. When he gets to the back, he grips Sherlock’s arms firmly but carefully, and weaves his belt through the spindles on the back of the chair before trapping Sherlock’s slender wrists with the strip of leather. John steps back, drumming his fingers against his lips as if contemplating his masterpiece.

“I don’t trust you. You’re slippery.”

He turns to the kitchen sink and grabs two relatively clean cotton rags before walking back to the chair and dropping to his knees in front of Sherlock. Teasingly, he pushes Sherlock’s legs apart and runs his cheek along the inside of one long thigh, eliciting a low whine. The attention distracts Sherlock long enough to allow John to use the two rags to tie his ankles to the front legs of the chair. Sherlock is now effectively immobilised, rocking back and forth against his bonds.

“John, please. I’m… sorry. Let me go?” His eyes are wide, lower lip tremulous, and both men are fully aware Sherlock’s shamming now, putting on a good show.

“Umm, nope.” John’s lips smack on the hard plosive for emphasis. “Maybe I can get some work done now.” He saunters back over to the desk in the living room, settling down in front of his laptop. However, instead of getting back to writing, John angles his body so he’s sure Sherlock can see him properly from his improvised restraints in the kitchen, and starts slowly, lazily palming his cock through his jeans.

“Ohhhh, Sherlock, this feels nice. You should come join me. Oh- wait…” John smirks, causing Sherlock to breathe out slowly, hissing through his teeth.

“Not fair, you miserable little man.” Sherlock’s dropped his voice an octave, rumbling deep in the back of his throat, as if he’s trying to appeal to John’s weakness for it. John, however, was expecting this, and is having none of it.

“Sherlock, don’t make me go back over there and shut you up. Keep quiet so I can work.” Work, however, is clearly the last thing on John’s mind, he’s undone the zip on his trousers and he’s languorously stroking his erection, straining against the thin worn cotton of his pants. He’s usually very quiet and efficient when he masturbates, but today he’s taking his time, luxuriating in the contact, and making all sorts of low, guttural moaning noises that Sherlock would undoubtedly find ridiculous if they weren’t so bloody arousing.

Whimpering theatrically, Sherlock thrusts his hips eagerly into the air, arse raised off the flat seat of the chair. If John’s going to put on a show, he’s going to get one back, with interest. John closes his eyes briefly, throwing his head back and slipping his fingers into the elastic of his underwear before looking back towards the kitchen.

Sherlock looks up again and their eyes lock, gazes trapped by each other. Unable to look away from Sherlock, John pulls his pants down blindly and exposes the top of his cock, running the ring of his fingers around the shaft a couple of times. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, which earns him another strangled whimpering noise from Sherlock.

Still not breaking eye contact, John stands up. He tugs his jeans back up so they’re clinging to his hips and walks slowly across the living room, leading with the still-exposed head of his cock. Unable to resist, Sherlock looks away first, his eyes drawn by the swell of flesh visible at the top of John’s briefs. John reaches the doorway into the kitchen and leans against the frame, his posture the picture of calm relaxation. The flush of his face, the sweat on his brow, and most blatantly, his swollen prick belies his calm exterior.

“You’re making an awful lot of noise here, Sherlock. Do you need help with something?”

Sherlock glares playfully at John and then down towards his crotch, his erection hasn’t abated in the least despite the lack of contact or attention.

“No, no, I’m fine, thanks. Carry on.”

Cocking one brow, John nods and steps into the kitchen, tugging his jeans and briefs away from his hips and letting them fall to his knees.

Standing just far enough from the chair to be out of reach of Sherlock’s mouth, John looks down at him and proceeds to lick the palm of his hand. He then reaches down and starts slowly, stroking his own throbbing cock again, but this time in earnest. He groans loudly, louder than usual, making a show of it. Lazily, he thrusts his hips towards Sherlock, sliding himself through the tight ring of his hand.

“God, Sherlock. Don’t you want me? Don’t you want to help?” John’s voice is pleading, almost whining, but his eyes are playfully controlling. “C’mon then, just reach out and touch me. Suck me off?”

Sherlock whimpers, his entire body rocking in the chair as he pulls at the belt restraining his arms behind him. His restraint is wavering, his playful mockery vanishing rapidly as he watches John pleasure himself, just so frustratingly out of reach.

“John, please… let me touch you. Let me touch myself…” He writhes, fighting uselessly against the bonds and bucking his hips upwards. Feigning sympathy, John leans forward runs one finger down Sherlock’s torso, popping open the straining buttons of his shirt and reaching down to the aching prominence in his trousers. John flattens his palm, pressing firmly against Sherlock’s erection as he continues stroking himself. Sherlock, desperate for any contact, cries out sharply and shifts his weight, rocking the chair back and forth in an attempt to get John to stroke him properly.

“Ah-ah, none of that.” John pulls his hand just barely out of reach - close enough that he can still feel the heat emanating from Sherlock’s groin, but not close enough for contact. John starts thrusting his hips, the ragged sound of his breath and the soft slap of skin on skin echoing through the kitchen as he picks up the pace, jerking himself off with his other hand, almost close enough for Sherlock to bend down and lick the head of his prick, but still a million miles away.

“Christ, Sherlock.” He gasps out between strokes “My cock is… so hard, so hot… The things you do to me. Too bad you had to… push your luck… not gonna… oh god… not gonna get to… touch me… oh god…” John groans, his knees buckling as he comes all over Sherlock’s chest, gripping the edge of the table to keep himself upright. His hips buck forward as Sherlock opens his mouth, a feeble attempt to catch the last dregs of orgasm spurting from the head of John’s cock. The sight of Sherlock covered in his come, and those lips, open wide and desperate, is enough to coax one final burst from John, Sherlock moaning in satisfaction as he catches a drop on his tongue.

John takes a moment to catch his breath, his shoulders rounded and heaving as he studies the mess he’s made all over Sherlock. Sherlock, who is trembling, aching with want, with need under John’s hands. His face is soft, lips swollen and cheeks flushed, no traces of the sharp tongue or piercing eyes from earlier.

“Sherlock…” John presses two fingers under Sherlock’s chin, tilting his face up so their eyes meet. “Do you promise now, to behave when I tell you I’m busy?” Eyes wide, Sherlock nods.

“I promise, John. I apologise. Please…” the desperation and pleading in his voice are entirely genuine now, not a hint of the earlier attempts at manipulation. “Let me come. I need it. I need it.” He bites his lip, letting his head fall down again.

John’s hand glides down Sherlock’s torso, now slick with sweat, dragging his knuckles over the planes of Sherlock’s ribs and musculature. With one hand, John makes quick work of opening Sherlock’s trousers, entirely unsurprised that he’s gone without anything underneath. His erection is a sight to behold, thick and heavy, nearly purple with throbbing blood. He’s so engorged his foreskin’s fully retracted, the glans swollen and damp with pre-come, smeared all over his stomach and likely the inside of his trousers.

Taking pity on Sherlock, John wraps his hand tightly around the base of his cock and begins stroking, firmly and quickly, knowing full well that Sherlock’s had more than enough teasing already. He’s so worked up it takes no time at all for John to get him teetering on the brink, and only a few more sure, steady strokes to bring him over it.

Desperate and overly-sensitised, the orgasm rocks violently through him. He throws his head back and lets out a loud, animalistic cry as he comes. His spine arches upwards, his whole body rising up off the chair, causing it to tilt dangerously backwards, balanced on two legs. Sherlock’s still writhing and thrashing, ribbons of ejaculate spilling onto his stomach and chest, as John reaches forward to steady the chair, preventing it from toppling over.

Gently, he straightens Sherlock in the chair, stroking his cheek. Sherlock sucks in a long, shuddering breath and lets his head fall into John’s hand.

“Thank you, John. I needed that. And… not just the orgasm.”

“I know.” John runs his thumb along Sherlock’s warm cheekbone and leans down to kiss his forehead. “Now let me get you cleaned up.” He drops to his knees, almost reverently, and unties the rags from Sherlock’s ankles, rubbing his feet and calves to get the blood flowing properly. John stands and steps around him, undoing the belt that’s been holding his arms captive for what seems like hours now. There are red marks around his wrists, but nothing that won’t fade soon. Sherlock rolls his shoulders a few times, loosening them, before stroking John’s hip awkwardly. He lets his arms fall to his sides as John stands by the sink, running one of the cotton rags under warm water.

He turns back to Sherlock, carefully trying to clean off all their dried, mingled ejaculate that’s splattered across his stomach, his chest, and inexplicably, his hair. John gets Sherlock’s skin clean but gives his hair up as a lost cause for the time being. Sherlock leans into him, sleepy and pliant.

“C’mon then, you great beast. Let’s get to bed.”

Unable to resist one last barb, Sherlock flumps over and looks at John. “But what about your blog entry?”

John lifts Sherlock gingerly to his feet and prods him down the hall towards the bedroom.

“I guess I learnt a lesson tonight too. Sod the blog, it can wait.”

“Told you so.”

Rolling his eyes, John nudges Sherlock so he falls into the bed in an ungainly heap. John strips the rest of their clothes off and settles in behind him, pulling up the duvet and smiling to himself as he switches the light off.


End file.
